“Do you do this for yoursisters, too?” She’d meant her tart words as a set down. Instead, they conveyed an alarming amount of feminine interest.
He ignored both sullenness and possible interest to answer honestly, “Occasionally.” Then, as if she’d asked, he explained, “I have two sisters. One older, one younger. And a niece who enjoys being prettied up.”
“Prettied up?”
“She’s five.” He let go of her hair, allowing it to cascade down around her shoulders but free of falling in her face.
“I also have two nephews,” he volunteered. “My sisters and their children live with me.”
“And your wife?” The question sizzled the air between them. She told herself that, again, she hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but held her breath for his answer.
His sudden grin turned cocksure.
She almost hated him and could blame no one but herself.
“I’m not married,” he said.
“Oh.” She infused in that single word complete disinterest. She knew how to do it with mastery. She’d learned that lesson protecting her own feelings in the drawing rooms of theton.
And the impact on the Irishman was like a slap in the face.
The humor vanished from his eyes.
Rocking back on his heels, he stood with easy grace. “Here, you are probably hungry.” He took several pieces of dried beef from the knapsack and dropped them in her lap. Taking a tin cup out next, he said, “Let me see if I can find water.” He didn’t wait for her answer but walked off into the forest bordering the opposite side of the road.
Lyssa watched his broad, straight back until he disappeared from view. She lowered her gaze to the three strips of beef and felt guilty. She told herself she’d done nothing wrong. Societyhad a pecking order and it would not be wise for her to become too familiar with Mr. Campion.
Mr. Campion.
For the first time, his surname came readily to her mind…and she was ashamed of herself for not using it earlier, becausesheof all people knew what it was like to be treated as if she didn’t matter.
Still, he was only an Irishman…
She put her shoes on. The bandages he’d tied around her feet prevented the still wet leather from rubbing the blisters, and she found she could move reasonably well. After taking a moment to seeing to her needs, she returned to the rock and chewed on the salty beef while waiting for him to return with water, which he did presently.
He offered the cup to her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes and yet knowing she could not avoid this unpleasant task forever. So, she took a sip, forced herself to look at him and said, “Thank you for your doctoring. And I’m sorry for my”—she paused for the right word—“my earlier churlishness, Mr. Campion.”
The apology was not so hard to speak aloud as she had feared. However, instead of being gracious, he grunted a response.
Grunted.
Like some hack driver.
After she’d apologized!
Lyssa had rarely apologized to anyone in her life. Of course, she’d never had a need to until this moment, another crime she could lay at his arrogant Irish feet.
She stood abruptly. It was either do that or throw the cup of water in his face—which she was very tempted to do.
Chapter Six
IANknew Miss Harrell had her temper up, and he didn’t care. She was a job, nothing more, and he couldn’t wait to wash his hands of her once they got to London.
No woman,no person, had ever held the ability to make him feel this small. But she could.
And he didn’t know why.
